


All According To Plan

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Child Abuse, Dutch and Hosea to the rescue, Hurt/Comfort, Lyle Morgan is a bastard in this one, Origin Story, Reader is Dutch, Reader-Insert, Roleplay (Reader is Dutch), Roleplaying Character, Tumblr Prompt, Young Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: When you interrupt Lyle Morgan beating his son, you never thought it would lead to you gaining a loyal son of your own.(Origin story about Dutch finding Arthur. The reader is Dutch).
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan & Reader, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	All According To Plan

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Child abuse  
> CW: depiction of fistfight  
> CW: description of injury

If you hadn't known why he was acting like such a little bastard, you wouldn't have liked the kid much. He was full of anger and spiteful comments. But you knew why he was acting the way he was, knew why he had lashed out when you first tried to help him once you were back in camp. The boy had finally calmed, allowing you to approach again, though he stared at you like a rabid dog. You wet the rag you were holding and wiped his bloodied lip gently. He let loose a tiny whimper of pain, but he followed it up with a nasty look from ocean-colored eyes.

"Why don't you keep your hands to yerself, mister?" he snapped, his voice cracking. You sighed.

"That cut on your chin needs tending, son. Now..." You paused for effect, raising a dark black brow. "We can do it the easy way, or the hard way." The boy sniffled, his bloodied, bruised nose giving his voice a nasal tone.

"What's the hard way?" he challenged. You chuckled, your deep baritone laugh filling the air between you with low sound. Your brown eyes met his, hardened.

"I hogtie you, gag you and stitch those cuts while my good friend Hosea here holds you down," you told him simply, gesturing at Hosea, who sat nearby reading a book and trying very hard to look displeased with you. The boy eyed both of you, cocking his jaw to one side, then the other.

"And the easy way?" he asked in a quieter tone.

"I look the other way while you take a few gulps of this whiskey and I stitch up those cuts while you sit quietly and don't give me any trouble like you did Hosea." The kid had spat tobacco juice all over Hosea's boots and your friend had stalked away, declaring that he was off to polish his boots and that if the boy wanted to bleed to death from his face, that was his prerogative. You had found the spite amusing, but now you wanted to get on with it. Spit and vinegar aside, you had other things to do than tend to the boy. His eyes flickered and he chewed his lip for a moment. "I'll give you a minute to think about it," you drawled, walking off to get some boiling water from the campfire.

Truthfully, you didn't want to like the kid. The last thing you and Hosea needed was another mouth to feed, but you were too kindhearted to just leave him where you'd found him. Plus, the kid could be useful, you thought, stroking your chin. Eyes going distant, you remembered the scene from earlier in the day...

It was a seedy establishment, no question. But then, good leads didn't come from fine establishments, more's the pity. You sat lazily at a table on the back patio of the saloon, sipping on lemonade, an expensive treat this far north. Hosea was enjoying a gin, and he waved away a fly that lingered, making itself a menace with the whining buzz of its wings. There was a raucous gang nearby, ne'er-do-wells and the like. You eyed them cautiously, knowing you were better than their ilk, but that no one else would see it that way if they started anything loud enough to draw the law here. The men appeared to be having a roast of one of their men, all cackling and sloshing their drinks around.

"And then Lyle's boy here says 'But Pa, we can't rob her, she's a wid'a,'" hollered a loud, drunken voice in a mocking tone, slapping the back of a broad, nasty-looking man who had a sullen expression on his face beneath a leather gambler's hat. Next to him sat a boy of perhaps thirteen years. The kid was sporting a black eye, and didn't have the good sense to stay quiet.

"She _was_ a widow, Pa. Tell 'em! It ain't right robbin' a woman."

"Shut up, boah. I want your opinion, I'll ask for it."

"But Pa..." The men gathered around hooted and hollered, cackling and mocking the boy and his father. That raised the man's ire immediately. He grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck, tossing him over the patio railing and into the filthy alleyway where he scrabbled in the dirt for a moment, getting to his feet just in time for his father to slam a fist into his jaw.

"I told you to...shut...the hell...up!" hollered the man, each pause accompanied by a blow to soft flesh. There was a cry of pain and you went stiff with righteous anger. "You're soft and you've always been soft, boah," the man hissed, lifting the teen up by his shirt collar and hitting him again. To his extreme credit, the boy held his father's gaze, intense, showing no signs of backing down from his principals. Clearly unsatisfied with the results of the beating he had dealt the boy so far, the man hit him again. You watched with interest, curious what would happen next, wondering if the man intended to beat his son to death.

"Think about how you'd have felt if somebody robbed Ma while she was still alive, Pa," the boy objected through a split lip, his eyes like ice, his voice soft but insistent.

"You leave your mother out of it," the furious man roared and he set about killing the boy in earnest now, his hand around his son's throat. Your shoulders bunched and your ringed-adorned hand clenched your glass, the metal scraping against the glass with an unpleasant screech. Hosea looked nervously over at you.

"Stay out of it, Dutch," Hosea prodded. "We're just here to scout the bank, we don't need anymore trouble. You'll just make it worse for the boy if you intervene." You tended to agree, but you couldn't help but note the teenage boy writhing to get away, struggling against his father's grip on his throat, the man's barrel chest heaving with rage.

"Please, Pa, no more. I'm sorry," rasped the boy in a choked voice, his hands scratching at his father's grip. The man shifted his grasp and the boy sucked in a gasp of air, a sob escaping him.

"Quit that cryin', boah. Pull yerself together. Always told yer ma you was useless and just look at you. You're pathetic. And if you get in the way of another robbery, I'll make you sorrier than you already are, you understand me?" The boy took another shuddering breath and stood up straight, though he favored one side.

"She was a _widow_ , Pa," he maintained with a crack in his voice. "It ain't right," he insisted though clenched teeth, and goddamn if you weren't tempted to cheer for the boy. Like a snake striking, the man backhanded him. The kid crumpled, his chin hitting a broken beer bottle with a sickening crunch when he landed. His father grabbed him again and that was enough. Enough.

"Enough!" you hollered, rising to your full height, your chair clattering backward as you rose, all six and a half feet of you. Your hand rested casually on the butt of your sidearm.

"Oh, hell, here we go," Hosea muttered under his breath, his hand going to his own sidearm, ready for trouble. The man's furious gaze slid abruptly to you.

"You mind your own business less'n you want to catch a bullet, mister," the man drawled.

"You keep your hands. Off. That. Boy," you said, enunciating each word very clearly, your voice trembling with rage, cracking slightly with the force of your emotion. The man turned to you fully, an ugly sneer slashed across his face.

"You gonna make me?" You raised a brow, nodding slightly.

"If I have to."

In an instant, both of you had your guns in your hands and a loud shot rang out. The man dropped to his knees and then flopped over, his leather gambler's hat tumbling from his head.

"Shit," Hosea murmured, looking down the alley way toward the main thoroughfare of the small town. "That shot's gonna bring the law, Dutch." Staring at his father, the boy watched as the life left his eyes. The boy's chin was streaming with blood, two distinct cuts sliced into it by his father's final blow. Whistles sounded nearby, the telltale call of police. Like cockroaches, the rest of the gathered men scattered, too concerned for their own hides to object to the fact that you had just gunned down one of their own.

"Dutch, we gotta go. Now," Hosea urged, grabbing at your arm.

"Hang on." Stepping down from the patio, you extended a hand to the boy. "You comin', son?" Looking more than a little shell shocked, the boy stared at you, then his father, then back. He reached down and pulled a photograph from his father's breast pocket and picked up his hat off the ground, settling it on his head. It was a size too big and it slid downward onto his brow.

"It's now or never, son. Come on."

The boy followed you and Hosea for lack of any other option, barely keeping up as you fled. You pulled him up onto your horse, feeling him cling to you like a tick as you spurred the Count onward.

You'd brought him back to your camp and tried to clean his wounds, only to be met with curses and insults. For the hundredth time you'd found yourself questioning the wisdom of picking up another thing to care for, but you knew that with the right people, you could one day make the world a better place.

The amount of rage this one had in him, you wondered if the boy wouldn't rather just watch the world burn than try to save it. There was fire in his eyes, even now as you returned with the boiling water. Still. He deserved a chance. He didn't seem to hold it against you that you had shot his father. If anything, he seemed relieved to be rid of him, but he still eyed you cautiously, mistrustful.

"So, what's it gonna be, son?" you asked him, nudging a bottle of whiskey closer to him and dropping the sewing needle and some thread into the water.

"Don't need it," he declared, tipping his chin up, though the gruff effect of this gesture was somewhat lessened by the wince of pain as the skin there shifted and you got a good look at white bone through the deep gashes.

"Your choice, son," you told him with a sigh. You put a gentle hand on the side of his jaw, tipping his head so you could get a better look. "You're damned lucky you didn't land on that bottle with your neck."

"'Lucky' ain't a word I'd use to describe myself, mister," the boy retorted. You hummed a small noise and picked up the needle and thread.

"This is gonna hurt," you informed him. "Hosea's usually the one doin' the doctorin' around here, but he doesn't want much to do with you after you spit tobacco on his boots."

"Told me I needed to wash my ass. Snotty bastard," the kid sneered. You popped him on the cheek lightly with your palm, pointing a finger in his face.

"I imagine his version was a little more clever than that," you remarked, holding back a bark of laughter. "Son, good hygiene is a mark of a good man. You listen to old Hosea and you'll be better off. Now hold still." The kid clenched his jaw, a small squeak of pain bubbling out of him as your needle sunk into the soft skin of his chin. He was only a teenager, but already his jaw was sprouting spare stubble the color of gold. His eyes were a bright blue with pupils ringed in gold and his nose was stately, long and delicately-shaped with a small divot at its tip. You could tell from the size of his frame that he was gonna be a big fella when he grew up, all wide shoulders and thick legs. Just the sort of person you needed. If you could win his loyalty, he would be a valuable asset in your plans.

You finished stitching his chin back together and then got him a bowl of stew, offering it to him gruffly. He accepted it and wolfed it down, tipping the bowl back and slurping all of it up as though he hadn't eaten in days. From the thin set of his cheeks, you suspected that might be the case.

"What's your name, son?" you asked finally. He hadn't yet offered it. The boy stared at you with a sort of half-feral expression, the way a wild dog would look at someone offering it a steak.

"Bet you'd like to know so you kin turn me in fer that bounty. Well, I ain't tellin' you." You pulled your leg up, resting your boot on a stump and then leaning forward onto your raised knee, arching a brow.

"A bounty, eh? Well, well. If I'd'a known there was a bounty on your head, I wouldn't have wasted the thread. I wonder if I can't pull it out and put it back on the spool once I turn you in." You met his eyes evenly. "Come on, son, use your head. We're out here in the middle of nowhere. I shot your Pa without a second thought," you pointed out with passion in your tone. "We're _outlaws_ , same as you. So I'll ask again - 'what's your name?'" He swallowed and scratched at his chin, wincing mightily when his finger caught one of the stitches.

"Morgan," he finally admitted. "Arthur Morgan."

"Well. It's nice to meet you, Arthur Morgan. I'm Dutch. Dutch Van Der Linde" You held out a hand, which he took suspiciously, eyeing your many rings. "So, Arthur. Can you shoot any better than you ride?"

\-----

Over the course of the next month or so, Arthur proved himself a skilled hand with a gun. He helped out with odd jobs here and there, mostly petty theft, but he had a code of honor that his father had not shared. He would not rob the poor. No widows, no "church fellers" as he called missionaries. You liked this greatly, pleased that Arthur was almost immediately on board with your Robin Hood-style idea of living. Arthur was gruff and angry and sullen, but he came around, in bits in spurts, watching you and Hosea working together. Hosea was a quick wit and a fair hand at finding cons, but you had quite a brain for planning, and you sketched out maps and paths for cornering marks in alleyways, for robbing train cars and escaping banks. You kept a detailed journal of who you robbed, and who recognized you and where you had already been, always prepared for bounty posters to show up. You kept a close ledger of your funds, keeping track of what you and Hosea managed to earn or rob.

Arthur often watched this over your shoulder, pretending to be absolutely disinterested when you caught his eye, but you'd smirk to yourself, knowing he was dying to have a journal himself, something to catalog his thoughts in.

You bought him one the next time you were in town, along with a pencil and a little piece of rubber he could use to erase with. You didn't make a big deal of it, you just left it in his little threadbare tent, along with an extra blanket to keep him warm. He moseyed up to you the next day, his eyes a little warmer, his body language a little friendlier.

"Thank ye," he drawled, sitting down on the log where you were perched, nearly close enough that his elbow was bumping yours. Determined not to get too attached, you gave him an irritated look, feigning annoyance at his presence.

"You got a problem with personal space, son? All this big country and you gotta plant your narrow ass right next to me," you complained, your voice cracking. He shimmied down the log, but still looked over at you hopefully, still wearing that damned hat of his father's, though it was too big for him yet. You had no idea why he wanted to keep it, given what you had seen of his father, he seemed truly grateful that Dutch had shot him, but there he sat with the hat atop his head as though it meant something to him. "What on earth do you want, Arthur?" you asked him finally.

"I been drawin' in that journal you done gave me." You nodded, waiting for him to go on. His cheeks burned red and you sat your pencil down, giving him your full attention. "Reckon...reckon you could teach me how to write so I can do that too?" You looked over at him, studying him.

"No one ever taught you how to read or write?" you asked, brows furrowing. Looking ashamed, Arthur swallowed, not meeting your eye.

"My ma...she tried, but she died when I was younger. I didn't keep up with it. I can write m'name and I know a few letters, but...I don't know much else." You patted him on the shoulder and he looked up at you now.

"Sure, son. Sure. We'll start with your letters." Arthur looked up at you with admiration, his usually cold eyes softening with gratitude. "Let me see some of those drawings," you asked. "And I'll write in the alphabet on a page so you can practice them." Arthur reddened.

"My drawin's...they ain't that good. I did one of myself, but you don't wanna see my ugly mug," he muttered. Sniffing, you sharpened your pencil with your knife and resolutely kept your gaze on the tip as you asked,

"Who told you you're ugly, Arthur?" He sighed, scratching his jaw with a thumb nervously.

"My pa. Er, well, kinda. I look like him, and he was a big ugly bastard, so I reckon I'm gonna be a big ugly bastard too." Arthur refused to meet your gaze when you looked up.

"You shouldn't talk like that, Arthur. You're a fine boy. A good, strong boy. You stick with me and you'll grow big and strong and maybe just a little mean," you told him with a grin. "You stick with me, help me with my plans and you'll do just fine, son. And you stick with me long enough, you'll have money. Maybe we'll get some land. And then you can get yourself a woman," you teased, nudging him in the ribs with an elbow. "Just you see."

Arthur rolled his eyes over to you with a look of disbelief, but he handed the journal over. You flipped through the pages. He was a fine artist, just fine. He'd be damn good at mapping out cities and bank layouts, you thought. You told him as much as you penciled in the alphabet in both capital and lower case letters.

"I'll get you a some books next time I'm in town," you promised him, and you were true to your word. A more eager learner you could not have asked for. Arthur threw himself into learning how to read and write, his eyes lighting up when you told him he had done well. He warmed up to Hosea too, gratefully accepting mystery novels to read. Where once Arthur had sullenly disrespected Hosea, there was now a growing rapport. Hosea taught him how to play dominoes and cards, and then how to cheat at both.

Pleased, you watched from your tent, your arms folded over your chest.

It was all going according to plan.

\-----

Arthur grew big, and strong, and smart. He was a man of principals, unwilling to budge...unless _you_ asked him to. You were the only person who could override this ingrained code of ethics, the only person he would do anything for. He seemed to feel he was indebted to you for saving him from his father, for taking him in, teaching him to read, feeding, clothing and caring for him. You were as much the boy's father as a man could want, but still, you kept that distance between you, that disinterested tone when he displeased you. Hosea didn't approve of this, warming to Arthur in your stead as you tried to teach him temperance. Spoiling him, you thought.

"Arthur needs more support from you, Dutch. More guidance. You step in, you replace his father, and for what?" Hosea scolded. You held out a placating hand.

"I have a plan, Hosea. Arthur needs to be able to care for himself. It's a rough life out here. You know it, and I know it." Hosea huffed, clearly in disagreement. "We have to see this thing through, my friend. We have to do better, to fight back against all this...all this..." You searched for the word, "...civilization. I want him ready for whatever might happen, my friend."

"You want him to have a complex," Hosea snapped.

"No," you insisted.

"Dutch...you'd better do right by him or you'll live to regret it." Hosea sighed. "That man would go through heaven or hell for you." You looked over at Hosea, taking a draw of your cigar and blowing it out in a huff.

"I would follow that boy into Hell itself, Hosea. He's grown into a fine man."

"He's loyal. To a fault," Hosea observed, rubbing his forehead. Hosea was right. Men had joined and left your posse, coming and going as the fancy took them, but Arthur never thought of leaving.

"I know," you murmured, watching Arthur where he was dutifully chopping wood. He spotted you looking and raised a hand in salute, smiling. That cut on his chin from years ago had scarred, marring his otherwise handsome face. You were proud of him, proud of the man he had become, though you rarely told him so.

That pride, that confidence in his abilities was the reason you listened to him when he told you about another young boy who needed help on a farm near your latest camp.

"I hear talk they're gonna hang him, Dutch," Arthur told you urgently, his brows pulled together in the middle the way they always did when he felt strongly about something. You stroked your chin, a cigar rested between your fingers.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you want a brother, Arthur. Or at least somebody else to do chores," you chuckled. He rolled his eyes, scuffing his thumbnail under his chin in a self-conscious motion.

"'Bout the last thing I need's a little brother, but...I was once a kid in need, Dutch. Thought mebbe..." You held up a hand.

"You needn't persuade me further, Arthur. Come on. Let me collect Hosea and we'll go."

As you rode together, your posse about to grow by one more, you smiled to yourself.

All according to plan.


End file.
